


RSVP (or: Another Friendship)

by EdnaV



Series: Slow Wedding [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Friendship, Gen, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Missing Scene, background Anthony J. Crowley/Avery Fell (Slow Show), ladies in their 50s who take no shit are the best, mia_ugly's Slow Show Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23546644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdnaV/pseuds/EdnaV
Summary: “You were right, Trace. He didn’t expect the ring.”“You’re the most romantic old queen I’ve ever met, love. You spend seven hundred grand on a cottage, and you worry about the ring. Now, tell meeverything.”Avery Fell’s marriage proposal to the love of his life, Anthony J. Crowley, went well. Now it’s time to tell everything to his best friend, Tracy Potts...
Relationships: Avery Fell & Tracy Potts (Slow Show), Aziraphale & Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Series: Slow Wedding [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647445
Comments: 32
Kudos: 95
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner, Slow Show Metaverse





	RSVP (or: Another Friendship)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mia_ugly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia_ugly/gifts).



> So! This little series inspired by mia_ugly's [Slow Show](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20395261) goes on.
> 
> I'm in love with mia's characters, and I think it's time to show a bit of this love to Tracy Potts, who's a powerhouse and a role model in her fic as much as in the original Good Omens. It's hard to find older ladies (or older characters, in general) who are both so sweet and tough, and I hope I did her justice...
> 
> As always, thank you to my wonderful beta [Lurlur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur).
> 
> Dedicated to mia_ugly: thank you for creating a beautiful and complex world, thank you for your blessing to play with it.

“Let me  _ hug  _ you, Az.”

Tracy doesn’t wait for permission: she always knows when her hugs are welcome. Avery’s engulfed in her arms.

“You were right, Trace. He didn’t expect the ring.”

“You’re the most romantic old queen I’ve ever met, love. You spend seven hundred grand on a cottage, and you worry about the ring. Now, tell me  _ everything.” _

He tells her, like he’s always told her. There’s no use lying to Tracy, she’s always been able to see right through him — even through the lies he was telling himself so stubbornly that he ended up believing them.

“So. Who was right about using two ring boxes?”

_ “You _ were right, Trace.” 

“And who’s the happiest woman on this earth?”

Avery lowers his eyes. Tracy can see a trace of guilt on his face.

“I don’t know,” he answers.

_ “I  _ am, you stupid man.”

“You deserve better than being a bridesmaid. Or husbandmaid.”

He’s painfully earnest. Tracy glares at him, but a mix of worry and sadness in her eyes softens her gaze.

“Isn’t it going to be Sarah?” she asks with a smile.

“Don’t change the subject, Trace,” he says drily.

“Fine. You feel guilty because  _ I _ dumped you — no, shut up — after we agreed that if one of us fell in love, our fake relationship was out of the window. I know that you thought that I’d fall for some idiot, you’d make the — how do you say? — the  _ grand gesture, _ and everybody’s happy because, for some reason that beats me, you  _ like _ to hurt yourself like that, thinking you don’t deserve anything for yourself. But I don’t give a flying fuck, Az. I’m your best friend, and I want you to be happy. And I told you: no more men for me. Now, can you believe what I tell you?”

It took Avery a while to notice that Tracy never talks very much. She chats away a lot, but when it comes to  _ talking, _ she has a preternatural gift for making  _ you _ talk. Tracy’s given him an earful this long only three times before.

The first time was in a greasy spoon in Bristol. It was 1991, and she’d convinced him that celibacy was better than a string of men in alleyways who treated him like shit.  _ (You deserve better, _ she’d said: she never truly convinced him of that, but the men had stopped.) 

The second time was in the A&E of St Thomas’ Hospital. It was 1995, and she hadn’t convinced him to go to the police. (He’d spent the night praying that nobody outside that room would find out what happened, and that the face would heal in time for the premiere.  _ Just the face, the rest doesn’t matter. _ His mates had believed the story of the drunkard on the n.19 bus, and with the judicious application of a little makeup, his Coriolanus had been a success.)

The third time was in their home in London (it was still  _ their _ home). It was last year, and she was crying, and packing a bag. She was taking care of him: as always, once again; one last time, before someone else would become the one to take care of him. (Before he’d had the courage to truly take care of someone else, for the first time in his life: not  _ grand gestures _ of giving away a coat to a homeless girl or buying a house for his old father, but the simple, everyday, boring things. He’d realised that only three months later: Anthony was in bed with a cold, and they’d spent the afternoon playing a videogame. Avery didn’t like videogames, and this one was no exception; and yet that evening he’d felt like his heart was two sizes too small for his pride and joy.)

And now this. 

“Can you believe me?” she repeats. “Can you trust me, when I tell you what I want?”

“Yes,” he answers, with a sigh that slowly turns into a smile.

“Good. Now I’m going to get the bubbly out of the fridge. And then we plan the next steps. Okay, love?”

“Okay, Trace.”

_ Plan the next steps. _ Avery is still overwhelmed by the one before. 

Through the haze of his happiness, he’s vaguely aware that a part of him has never left that cottage — not since that night when he asked Anthony to come to bed with him. That a part of him, the deepest and purest one, will never leave that cottage, as long as he lives.  _ Maybe Anthony and I will haunt that place forever, bless it for the next happy couple. Oh good Lord, what am I thinking? Am I becoming a 50-year-old maudlin teenager? _

Tracy comes back from the kitchen with a bottle of Prosecco and two glasses. They toast to their friendship, to Anthony, to rings and cottages (and the downturn of the housing market,  _ five months ago that cottage would’ve been at least 800 grand, Az),  _ and to happiness, and  _ to whatever comes next. _

That’s when Tracy casually says, “you know, Az? I think I will call on that new agent of yours. We have to take care of you and your  _ dear boy, _ after all.”

Avery trusts her. He knows that’s always been the best thing he could do.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't be shy, make me smile, leave a comment!


End file.
